


No Pressure

by starkstateofmind



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Humor, Covert Operation, F/M, Fake Marriage, SHIELD, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkstateofmind/pseuds/starkstateofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Natasha are assigned to work undercover as a married couple in a Baltimore suburb. He's the work-from-home husband running backup and she's a newly transferred junior executive of the company they're trying to bring down for SHIELD. Will heat up and get action-y with more chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like She's the Love of Your Life, Rogers.

“Married. To her. For a whole mission.” It wasn’t a question; he looked between Fury and Agent Hill, who offered him a smirk before turning back to her tablet. 

“Like she’s the love of your life, Rogers.” Fury held the file out across the desk.  

Steve stared at it, the black S.H.I.E.L.D. logo gleaming on the front. He clenched his hand into a fist at his side, feeling the fabric of his uniform stretch against his skin. 

Fury sighed and stood, dropping his hand. “Look, this is what will be best for undercover on this one.” He shared a glance with Hill and held the file out once more. “It’s a good cover; worked a thousand times for other agents.” 

“You know that’s not-” 

“I _know_ you don’t like it.” The director leaned in and slapped the folder against Steve’s chest, right over the white star on his uniform. “But I need you to get the job done.” 

Steve took the file and opened it, staring blankly at Agent Romanov’s civilian ID, paper-clipped to his own. As of two days from now, they would be Mr. and Mrs. Newell of a Baltimore suburb. He sighed and closed it. “Will do, sir.” 

 

*******

 

It wasn’t as if he didn’t _like_ her, he thought to himself as he sorted through the piles of civilian clothing he’d been issued by S.H.I.E.L.D.. He liked her fine, maybe even more than fine. A lot more. Which was mostly why he’d been avoiding her the past few months. He set a stack of neatly folded jeans into the bottom of one of the suitcases and looked around the living room of his apartment. It looked weird with all the newness in it; two suitcases, clothes, a laptop bag, a different phone (as if it wasn’t confusing enough with just one), and some other, miscellaneous personal items. “Take whatever you want and leave the rest here,” an agent had told him when they dropped it all off. 

Steve picked up a pair of thick framed glasses (courtesy of the laptop bag), almost identical to the ones he’d worn in D.C.. She’d kissed him in glasses like this. He put them on and wondered if she had liked them before. She probably hadn’t cared one way or the other; it was a means to an end, not a gesture of romantic feeling. Taking the glasses off and dropping down on the sofa between a suitcase and a mountain of shirts, he rested his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He had to pull it together for the morning; he was being a jackass and he knew it. So what if he hadn’t worked a job with her in four months? So what if he’d asked not to be assigned with her again? It was bound to happen sooner or later because they worked so damn well together. And so what if the last time he’d seen her. . . Christ, he didn’t even want to start on that again. If it had meant anything then, it certainly didn’t now and he should just get over it. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. Those suitcases weren’t going to pack themselves. 

 

*******

 

Up to three weeks. That’s what the file said. The mission would take up to three weeks to complete; one for installing surveillance, one for Romanov to get on everyone’s good side, one to get the information. Hopefully, they’d be out with time to spare. They were supposed to be infiltrating this company that had overseas ties with some S.H.I.E.L.D. blacklist-ers. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing there; she could probably take care of this with one hand tied behind her back. Steve leaned against the brick wall of his apartment building, watching a car that was not hers drive past, his reflection rippling in the glass of the windows. He had gone with the glasses, and a green hoodie with a blue t-shirt underneath. It, unfortunately, had some unreadable decal on the chest, but otherwise was nice enough. The jeans, however, he would have to talk to someone about in future; they felt like they might just fall off at any moment, and not because he’d forgotten a belt. At least the shoes had laces; gray, canvas things with flat, rubber soles. 

There was also the wedding ring he had very nearly forgotten to put on as he was leaving. Steve held out his left hand, spreading his fingers wide to inspect it properly; it was gold with a tiny silver stripe through it- an emergency tracker made to look decorative. He half wished the S.H.I.E.L.D. guy hadn’t told him that. Maybe that made him a romantic, but at least it would have kept the illusion of love for his old fashioned sensibility instead of ripping the operation away to it’s clinical bones. . .

A car whipped around the corner and he knew just from the speed that it was her. His hand dropped to his side, grabbing nervously onto the outside seam of his jeans. The car itself was a regular, white, newish looking Honda Civic. She pulled up at the sidewalk and rolled down the driver’s side window. Her red hair was pulled up and held at the back of her head with a clip. Two identical strands fell loose on either side of her face. 

“Hey, did you know you look like that Captain America guy?” A half-smile twitched up the side of her mouth at her own joke as she leaned down to pop the trunk. 

“I’ve been told.” He hauled his suitcases and bag around to the back and loaded them in next to her purple ones. Slamming the trunk and steeling himself, he walked around to the passenger side and climbed in. 

Natasha pulled the car back into the street, zipping through the yellow light on the corner. It was early and there was very little traffic out. Light was just starting to hit the tops of the buildings that bordered the street. He glanced sideways at her; she was wearing a long, creme colored, loose-knit sweater and burgundy leggings that only went past her knee. Silver teardrop earrings dangled from her earlobes. There was also a little metal hoop through the top of the ear facing him. The hand she was steering with had a matching ring on the index finger, along with a second ring; one with several tiny diamonds and turquoise inset. 

They drove in silence for a while, her fingers tapping on the steering wheel while he looked out the window and chewed his lower lip. He turned his own ring around on his finger, resisting the urge to take it off and pocket it. When they got out on the highway, she hit the cruise control and pulled her feet up to sit cross legged in her seat; she wasn’t wearing any shoes. Her toenails were pale peach. He swallowed and tried not to think about how tiny her feet were. How was he supposed to act married to someone he couldn’t even start a conversation with? It used to be easy, but now. . . The four month gap was distinctly taking its tole. 

About forty-five minutes into the trip, she cleared her throat and he jumped, startled out of watching the traffic barrier flick by at eighty miles per hour. 

“So,” she said, still looking ahead at the road, “I’ve never been married but I’m pretty sure it involves some conversation.” 

“Probably,” he agreed, releasing his lip from between his teeth. 

When he offered nothing else, she huffed out half a laugh and glanced at him, her green eyes meeting his blue ones momentarily. 

“Start with your cover profile. Tell me about David Newell.” She grinned more fully and reached her right, ringless, hand out to him; her fingernails were also peach. 

He stared, nonplussed at the hand extended towards him. His lip had found its way back under his front teeth. 

Natasha shook her wrist impatiently, not looking away from the road. “Hold my hand, David.” 

“Oh.” Right. Of course. He took it and she laced her smaller fingers between his large ones, resting them on the center console. Her palm was smooth and cool; he could feel raised calluses in between joints on her fingers. It suddenly felt about ten degrees too warm in the small space between them. At least he couldn’t see the damn ring anymore.

“Better get used to it now, right?” Her eyes met his again. 

He nodded and she squeezed his hand. 

“Profile?” she prompted again after another silence. “You alright, Rogers?”

Steve jumped and pulled himself away from the sight of her hand in his like that. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine.” 

“Good.” Natasha smirked and rubbed her thumb against the side of his hand. “I guess I’ll start. Tara Newell, thirty-two, junior executive at Roiker and Bates transferred up to the main Baltimore branch from Miami. I like yoga, Vonnegut, indie films, and my husband.” 

His hand was already sweating. Well, most of him was it seemed like. “David Newell, thirty-three, used to teach high school English but is in between jobs working on a novel. He-” Steve swallowed and took a breath. “ _I_ met _my_ wife because we were both on student senate in college at Berkley. She was student body president, I was secretary.” 

“Became president of that student body as well, huh?” Natasha grinned and looked at him again, her eyes flicking from his lap up to his face. When he didn’t respond she rolled her eyes. “It’s a joke, David, honey.” 

“Oh. Sure. Sorry.” His stomach had turned from an overlarge bubble of nervousness to completely gone in the span of the word “honey” falling from her lipgloss coated mouth. He tried to pull his hand away from her, knowing she would feel his pulse racing in his palm, but she only tightened her grip, her little pink nails digging into his knuckles. 

“Nope. We’re establishing intimacy now while you can’t get away.” Her thumb resumed circling softly over his skin. 

Steve slumped in his seat, trying to ignore the hot flush crawling up his neck. “I could always jump.” 

“ _Now_ you’re starting to sound married.” 

That joke he got. He laughed and ran a hand over his face. Three weeks. Three weeks and this would all be over. He could make it that long. Right?

 


	2. Home Sweet Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Nat get settled into their new "home" before the mission.

The house they parked in front of was a thousand times nicer than what Steve had expected. Not that he’d been hoping for much; the last undercover mission he’d run, he’d ended up living with ten other people in a one room apartment in Darfur. But this. . . It was a white, New England bungalow, with a covered porch wrapping around the right side and a big bay window upstairs looking out at the street. An enormous trumpet vine with bright orange flowers climbed the railing and columns on the porch, crawling up the slatted face of the house. The lawn was tiny but neat, with an overgrown side garden separating it from the neighbor’s grass. 

“Home sweet home.” Natasha held his hand up between them and shifted so she was facing him. “You ready?” 

Honestly, he felt like he might throw up, especially with her looking at him like that. He nodded and she released him at last. She slipped her feet into white flats that she had pulled from under her seat and got out of the car. Giving him a final smile and jerk of her head, she slammed the door, the loose strands of hair around her face fluttering. 

Come on Rogers. Steve took a deep breath, his t-shirt pulling tight across his chest, and opened his own door. It had turned into an overcast, muggy June afternoon with enough of a breeze to give it the feeling of impending rain. He wiped his sweating palms on his jeans and met Natasha around the back of the car where she was unloading their suitcases. 

“I got ‘em,” he said, reaching for the ones she hadn’t reached yet. 

“Thanks.” She picked up her little backpack and his shoulder bag, gripping the handle of her smaller suitcase. Starting for the house, she patted her sweater and then turned to him, brows knitted. “Hey, did you bring the keys?” 

He froze halfway through closing the trunk, his fingers cracking through the white paint in horrified realization. Keys? As in house keys? He hadn’t been given any keys. . . 

And then she was laughing, holding up a keyring and jingling them. “Kidding, kidding!” 

Oh. He released the trunk lid, letting it close on its own. Feeling that abrupt, irrational surge of panic rush out of him as quickly as it had come on, he leaned his elbows on the back of the car, putting his head in his hands and leaving the suitcases forgotten around his feet. “Jesus Christ, Nat.” He huffed a laugh, looking at her through his fingers. “Don’t scare me like that.”

She shrugged and turned back toward the house, hiking the shoulder bag up higher on her arm. “Never met a lock I couldn’t pick, David.” 

Steve grinned and watch her walk up the driveway to the front door. The muscles in her calves flexed visibly on every step. When she got to the door, she looked to him and caught his eye. He glanced down quickly, pretending to examine the finger dents he put in the car. 

“You coming or what? I’m not carrying myself over this threshold.”

“Yep, right behind you.” He deftly collected all their suitcases (yet another perk of super strength. Captain America: the world’s best valet) and followed her in. 

 

*******

 

The inside was immaculate, with wood floors and a varnished staircase leading up at the end of the front hallway. The living room to the right was flooded with light from the big front windows and the large kitchen to the left had about half a dozen hanging vines draped over a trellis also used to hang pans and cookware. 

“Wow.” Steve set the suitcases down in the front hallway and went into the living room; along with the big windows, it had a set of double doors with stained glass paneling leading out onto the porch. At the front, there was a pristine set of matching white furniture and a floral rug, and at the back was a fireplace and a desk with two computer monitors. 

“S.H.I.E.L.D. really went all out on this one,” Natasha said from the hallway. He could hear bemusement in her tone and he stepped back into the hall. She was standing on the stairs, looking at a few framed photographs. 

He followed her up to where she was standing and froze at the picture. It was a wedding photo of, well, them. “What the hell,” Steve breathed, taking it in. Natasha was smiling, wearing a long, draping dress, her arm around his tuxedoed waist. A weird kind of dissonant nostalgia welled up in him. Or maybe it was the absence of nostalgia. It was like staring into another universe, one where he got to be a person instead of a hero. One where Natasha smiled like that all the time. 

“Maria is too good at photoshop,” she said, glancing at him. When he said nothing, she added, “Photo editing software.” 

“Right. . .” He cleared his throat and tore his gaze away from the photograph. “We should probably, uh, unpack or something.” 

She laughed and he knew it was at his discomfort. “Yeah, probably.” She continued up the stairs and he went back down to get the suitcases. 

Upstairs was just as nice as downstairs, with a hall bathroom, a guest room and a master room. He found her sitting, looking at her phone on the bed in the big bedroom, the one with the bay windows he’d seen outside. The bed was huge, taking up most of the room, up against the far wall parallel to the windows. 

“Where do you want these?” he asked, holding up one of her suitcases. 

“Anywhere’s fine,” she said without looking up. 

He set her things down at the foot of the bed and started down the hall with his to the other room. 

“Where’re you going?” she called after him, getting up to lean out the doorway of her room. 

Steve turned around, nonplussed. “To my room?” 

“This _is_ your room.” Natasha rolled her eyes and stepped out of sight, back into the bedroom. “We’re _married_ remember?” 

“Yeah, but-” 

“Assuming we may be under surveillance, if we have the lights on in both bedrooms, it could break the cover.” She came back into the hallway and pulled the smaller suitcase out of his grip, leading him into the bedroom and setting it down. “I know you’re uncomfortable with me-”  
“I’m not!” he interjected, hovering in the doorway behind her. 

She snorted and looked back at him, one eyebrow raised. “Come on. You’ve been more nervous than Banner in a china shop all damn day.” 

He smirked at the reference as she heaved one of her suitcases up on the bed to unpack it. Dawdling awkwardly, not entirely sure what to say, he watched her unpack for a few minutes, neatly spreading out her clothing across the white duvet. Should he apologize? What was he supposed to say? That he didn’t want a repeat of last time? Well. . . That would be just plain lying. What he didn’t want was to _want_ a repeat of last time. If that made sense. His eyes followed her to the walk-in closet where she grabbed a handful of hangers and brought them back to the bed. He swallowed. “Nat, I’m-” 

“Steve.” Natasha dropped the hangers on the bed and met his gaze, her mouth a tight line. “I know what you requested four months ago.” 

He stared down at the immaculate white carpet, shoving his hands in his pockets “I just-” 

“I’m not asking why,” she spoke over his apology, “But we need this to work. So, can you put away whatever it is you see between us?” She put on a half-smile and shook out a black dress shirt. “We used to be very comfortable together.” 

“I _know_ , but-” He stopped himself and took a shaky breath. “It’s different now.” 

“It doesn’t have to be,” she countered, “Loosen up a little. I know you’re capable of it.” 

He pushed his glasses up his nose, not knowing where to look as she carried a handful of bras past him. Maybe he could get away with sleeping on the floor. Sighing, he grabbed his bigger suitcase and set it on the bed across from hers. He opened it and started unpacking as well. 

There was a snapping elastic sound and something hit the back of his head. He caught it as it fell; it was a pair of black, lace women’s underwear. Blushing, he spun around and threw them back in her direction.

She caught them easily, laughing. “That’s more like it, soldier.” 

 

  *******

 

They spent most of the afternoon familiarizing themselves with the house and Natasha sat with him for two hours, helping him navigate the computer downstairs. He was, admittedly, improving in that field lately, no matter what Stark said. 

“You’ll be looking for anything suspicious in the files I send you,” she was saying from her perch on the desk, “Missing phone numbers, redacted information, weird credit card receipts, whatever. A lot of reading.” 

Steve set his glasses on top of his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And why am I doing this, exactly?” 

“Didn’t you read the report?” she grinned and kicked his knee lightly. 

“Well. . . Yeah, but don’t the regular agents do stuff like that?” 

“You see any junior agents around here?” She slid off the desk to lean against it. “Since S.H.I.E.L.D. went underground, us big shots have to do it instead.” 

He leaned back in the desk chair, staring blankly at the monitors in front of him. “Right.” 

The briefing file had said they were looking for an individual leaking information on S.H.I.E.L.D. to an overseas contact, maybe in Hydra or just another government. Normally, it wouldn’t be anything to fuss over-- just someone trying to make a little extra cash, but Natasha was right; even the smallest details of S.H.I.E.L.D. intel were particularly sensitive these days. Still, it wasn’t really what he was used to in a mission. 

“Thai for dinner?” she asked, phone in hand, “There’s a place that delivers pretty close to here.” 

“Yeah, sure.” He got up and stretched, looking out the front window. Warm, early evening light was flushing the street outside with an amber glow. A couple of kids rode past on bikes. Natasha had gone into the hallway, presumably ordering dinner. Crossing the room, he opened the windows and settled into the big sofa across from the TV. A soft, humid breeze poured into the room, the coolness of the evening already tangible. Steve sighed, shucking his hoodie for the first time all day, feeling a strange, comfortable calmness settle in him. Music started playing from the kitchen; not anything he recognized but it didn’t matter. She was singing along to the words, soft enough that she probably thought he couldn’t hear her. Closing his eyes, he rested his head on the back of the couch, breathing in the early summer air and letting himself, no matter how momentarily, slip into the weird little fantasy unfolding around him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I promise the plot will really kick off in the next chapter! And that it'll be posted much faster than this one.  
> Also (blatant self-promotion) check out my tumblr: thecursingviolinist.tumblr.com


	3. Work Through It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nat heads out for her first day on the "job" and Steve has a few moments of introspection.

Steve woke to rain drumming into the shingled roof, and bluish early morning light filtering in through the curtains. The shower was running, almost imperceptible under the sound of the rain. He rolled onto his stomach, reveling in just how soft the sheets were against his bare chest. Not to say the bed in his apartment wasn’t nice, but luxury was something he had tried to stay away from in his new life. He hadn’t needed it in 1943 and he didn’t need it now; though the “memory foam,” as Natasha had called it, was starting to change his mind. She’d just about ordered him not to sleep on the floor as previously planned, and he was pretty glad of it at the moment. Even if it’d taken him two hours to fall asleep. 

The shower squeaked to a stop and he could hear her damp feet smack on the tile. He didn’t move when the bathroom door slid open, listening to her pad across the carpet to the closet and into his field of vision. And just like that, the warm, content bubble popped.; she was completely naked with her back to him, bent slightly to one side, drying her hair with her towel. Steve closed his eyes and tried to pass off sleeping, but even he could feel how red he had gone. 

“Pervert.” The closet door opened with a snap and he could hear laughter in her voice. 

He groaned and rolled onto his back, pulling his pillow over his head, trying to hide from his own embarrassment. “You know, this whole “loosening up” thing would be a lot easier if you’d meet me halfway, Nat,” he said through the pillow, still squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Well that wouldn’t be half as fun for me, _Steve_.” 

He felt the bed dip down on his side and something tugged upward on the pillowcase. His hands tightened resolutely on either side of it, keeping it clamped over his face. After a few seconds of this, she let go and her weight left the bed. There was some rustling over by the closet and he relaxed his grip on the pillow, trying not to think about the image of her body that seemed burned into his retinas. 

“Okay, I’m decent.” 

Cautiously, he peeked out in time to see her walk past the end of the bed into the bathroom, a pencil skirt clinging tightly to her hips, high heels clacking on the tiles. A dull roar started up when she plugged in the blow drier. He sat up, tossing the pillow behind him and swung his legs out of bed. 

 

*******

 

He was sitting at the kitchen counter, newspaper in hand, when she followed him downstairs twenty minutes later.

“Morning,” he said to the sound of her heels, not looking up. 

“What, no breakfast?” 

He folded the paper and set it on the counter. “No groceries.” 

“That’s S.H.I.E.L.D. for you, I guess.” She was opening cabinets over the sink. “No coffee? At all?” 

Steve watched her for a minute, taking in her tight, sleeveless, white shirt with a lace collar and panelling down her back. Her hair was curled at the ends, scooped over to one side to fall over her left shoulder. It was longer than he’d ever seen it, falling to the tops of her breasts under her shirt. 

“Guess I’m going shopping after work.” She let the last cabinet fall shut, turning to him and meeting his gaze. “What?” 

He shrugged, bringing the newspaper back up between them to hide his blush. “Nothing. You’re just. . .” He cleared his throat, pretending to be very interested in the sports section. “You look nice.” 

“Oh. Thanks.” 

Over the top of the paper, he watched her walk out into the hallway and heard the sound of keys jingling. “Heading out?” 

“Yeah,” she answered, poking her head back into the kitchen, “I’ll text you when I’m there so keep your phone with you.” 

“Will do.” 

The front door opened and slammed. Not even a goodbye. But that was her, he supposed, even if he’d been half thinking she’d make him walk her to the door for a parting kiss to keep the cover, or something. Still, it was probably better that she hadn’t. He stood and stretched, shaking the strange little flutter of disappointment out of himself, and went upstairs to shower. 

He stripped out of his sweatpants, noting the entire bedroom smelled like perfume. The wedding ring clacked against the dial when he turned the shower on. Hot water beat down on him, and he stared at the two bottles of shampoo sitting side by side on the little inset shelf in the shower wall. Hers was pale purple, his was red. He wet his hair down, water streaming down in rivulets over his face, letting the nervous tension that had been building since she had climbed into bed next to him last night leave him. Admittedly, it was going better than he had been expecting; sure, she was giving him a hard time but at least she was keeping everything more or less business like. Although, maybe that was because she knew about his request he made to keep them from working together. . . The little confrontation in the bedroom came back to him and he sighed, wishing she had let him explain. 

It really wasn’t that she made him uncomfortable. Well. . . She _did_ make him uncomfortable but not in a way that made him want to avoid her-- more in the want-to-see-her-all-the-damn-time way. And, after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, he had pretty much gotten his wish there; they had worked recovery case after recovery case together until the incident a few months ago. They’d been in the hanger deck of the last operational hellicarrier and she had just landed a barely functioning jet coming back from taking out a Hydra base in the middle of the Atlantic. They’d flown almost two thousand miles on one engine and he could remember feeling that same irrevocable aching sadness of death washing through him when he looked across the cockpit to her. He was pretty sure he’d said something heartfelt but if he had, she didn’t respond. He remembered thinking she was beautiful then. 

When they got out of the plane, reeking of burning jet fuel and shaking from just living, he had hugged her, picked her up, felt her back crack. He might have cried too, but he couldn’t remember. But he did remember the way she had pushed him against the damaged jet and kissed him, harder and deeper than he’d ever been kissed in his life, her hands working the pants on his uniform open and running across his hips. . . 

Steve heard a snap and looked down; he had cracked the plastic top off the shampoo bottle. He clenched his jaw and gingerly returned the bottle to its shelf. He’d never felt anything more real, more affirming than her mouth on his in that moment and when she’d broken away from him, pushing sweat soaked hair out of her face, to leave him standing there, panting and alone in the hanger, it had answered all the questions he’d ever had about her; she was a thrill seeker, pulled stunts to feel alive, and for all her cold calculating stares, was an adrenaline junkie. He’d seen guys like that often enough in the army. He had also seen what happened to them. So he stopped working with her because, no matter how selfishly, he didn’t want to watch her die. 

He took a deep breath, and steadied himself. It was fine, this mission was low stakes, they would be fine. He would be very surprised if they got into anything worse than paperwork on this one. Nothing to worry about. 

 

*******

 

He checked his phone when he got downstairs where there were two new messages waiting for him. 

**Tara: Here.**

**Tara: Accessed database; sending your way. (My boss is an ass btw)**

Hitting the power button on the computer, he sat down in the desk chair, swiveling it and staring at the phone.

**Me: Okay.**  

**Me: Sorry about your boss.**

Steve set it on the desk next to the mouse and waited for the browser to open. Open the email, hit download. See? He could manage. His phone pinged. 

**Tara:** **It’s cool.**

He set the phone down again and then retrieved it once more when he noticed the little window that had popped up over the browser. 

**Me: The computer says it’s going to take 3 hours to complete the download.**

She replied almost immediately. 

**Tara: Don’t worry grandpa that’s normal.**

Rolling his eyes, he tapped out: **Is there something I can do during that time?**  

**Tara:** **Did anyone tell you about porn?**

Steve almost dropped the phone; he could feel himself turning red. Unfortunately, Stark had taken that introduction upon himself when he was setting up Steve’s computer in his apartment. He hadn’t really recovered from it. 

**Me: I meant something constructive.**

**Tara:** **Until those files are downloaded, there’s not a lot to do.**

That’s what he thought. He sat back in the chair and pocketed the phone, looking around the house. As he did, he noticed for the first time that, under the TV, there was a small collection of books next to a stack of DVDs. Those, at least, he knew were reliable. He got up from the desk and crossed the room, crouching down to examine them more closely. None of them jumped out as anything he knew or had heard of; most of them were generic-- cookbooks, a dictionary, a phonebook. . . The last one he pulled was older than the rest, with a tattered binding and fabric cover with an imprint of thistles on the front. The title, _Landscape and Gardening,_ was stamped in gold letters on the spine. He opened it, fingers trailing over the aged paper and flipped to the front page. It had been published in 1956. It being here in the safe house made almost as much sense as him being there. Resisting the urge to press his nose into the pages, he skimmed through the illustration pages, all hand drawn, not entirely sure what he was looking for. He stood, his knees cracking, still holding it delicately, as though it might fall apart, and read the first page. It was dry, but in a familiar diction-- well more familiar than the trashy novels Nat read in her bunk between missions. 

Steve looked out the front window at the overgrown yard and a smile perked up the side of his mouth. The rain had all but stopped and the clouds were becoming more patchy. Maybe that three hours wouldn’t be so tedious after all. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: I am going to the UK for three weeks and will not update until I get back!!! But after that, it will continue!! Thanks for reading, ya'll are awesome. 
> 
> Also: I run a Tony Stark RP blog at philanthropicgeniusrichboy.tumblr.com   
> and my regular blog at thecursingviolinist.tumblr.com


	4. A Series of Losses Set Against a Series of Triumphs.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve works on the lawn and meets the neighbors, learning something he isn't ready to hear.

An hour and a half later, Steve had resorted to using his phone as reference rather than the book; Google was a hell of a lot faster and more up to date. He was standing knee deep in overgrown peonies, cutting the rhododendron hedge back with kitchen scissors. It was unfortunately hot and, despite this being pretty untaxing work, sweat was dripping into his eyes and staining his t-shirt. He had even exchanged his jeans for a pair of knee length, loose khaki cargo shorts. There were scratches down his forearms from a run in with the huge rosebush in the backyard and he knew he was getting a sunburn on his neck, but at least he wasn’t bored. He had sent Nat three pictures of flowers from the yard, to all she had responded with “lol,” which he took as a good sign. He tossed another handful of clippings into the growing pile behind him and stood straight, cracking his back. Looking down the hedge, he put his hands on his hips and grinned to himself; he was doing a pretty good job for someone who knew nothing, if he did say so himself. It looked a hell of a lot better than it did before, anyway. 

And then something hit him in the shoulder, making him jump and drop the scissors into the plants around his feet. Bending over to retrieve them, he also found what had surprised him; a neon orange and yellow dart with a suction cup on the end. He turned it over in his fingers, examining it. It had blue fins on the back and seemed to be made out of very light foam. Standing on his toes, he tried to see over the tall hedge he was working on, but could only see the neighboring house and none of the yard the dart had presumably come from. 

“Hey! That’s mine.” 

Steve startled again, having been too busy trying to find the dart’s owner in the other yardto notice the person standing behind him. He spun around, eyes falling on a very young girl, probably seven or eight, pointing a plastic gun at him. Her frizzy black hair was pulled up into two round buns at the top corners of her head and she was missing her two front teeth. She was dressed in black leggings, a black shirt printed with little red hearts, and a black petticoat skirt that bounced when she walked toward him. 

He held his hands up, elbows level with his ribcage and grinned down at her. “You got me.” Steve tossed the dart to her and she caught it. 

The girl put the dart back into the toy gun and kept it pointed at him, squinting to stare down the barrel. “I’m Black Widow and I wanna know what you’re doing here,” she said, her reedy voice taking on a cool quality. 

Steve chuckled, dropping his hands and picking up his scissors. “Well, I’m cleaning the yard.” 

She lowered the gun in favor of watching him. “Do you live here now?” 

“Yep.” He stuck the scissors in his pocket and held out his hand. “I’m David.” When she eyed his hand suspiciously, he squatted so he was eye level with her, and took her right hand, shaking it. She caught on and shook back, grinning toothily. “Very nice to meet you, Miss Widow.” 

“My name’s Max,” she giggled, crouching down too, mimicking him. “Do you know who Black Widow is?” 

“Of course,” he answered. Too well, he thought, biting back a laugh. “Not as well as you, I bet.” He stood back up and went back into the peonies to continue his labors with the hedge. 

“She’s awesome.” Max stayed in the grass and fired her gun again, running after the dart across the yard. 

“Yeah she is,” Steve mumbled, mostly to himself, focusing on the greenery in front of him. 

“Max?” Someone- a woman- called from the other side of the hedge. 

“She’s over here,” Steve called back, turning to grin at Max again. 

A woman who looked to be Max’s mother came around the hedge out by the driveway; her black hair was streaked gray around the temples, but had the same willowy frame as her quarry. 

“Deb!” Max ran for the woman, grabbing her hand and pointing at Steve. “He lives here.” 

“Really?” The woman, Deb presumably, looked between the girl and Steve, smiling. “Sorry about that,” she said as she got closer. 

“Not a problem.” Steve grinned and held out his hand. “David Newell. We moved in yesterday.” 

“Deb Belfon.” She shook his hand. “Yeah, my partner and I were wondering if you were the new owners.”

Max held out her hand again and Steve shook it, winking at her. “Yep, we are.” 

“Doing a good job on the yard, I see,” Deb said, peering around Steve to look at his handiwork. 

“Trying to.” Steve put a hand on his hip and ran the other through his hair. “I’ve lived in apartments my whole life so I’m still learning.” 

“I used to live in a apartment!” Max piped up, tugging on Steve’s hand. 

“Oh yeah?” he asked, noticing a quick flash of something like grief in Deb’s face. “Where?” 

“It’s “an” apartment, sweetheart,” Deb interjected quickly, offering Steve a quick half smile. 

Max nodded, her mouth still forming the answer to Steve’s question but never quite getting there. 

“Actually, Lauren- my partner- is big into gardening,” Deb continued. “We have about a hundred books if you’d like to come over. I was getting ready to start lunch, which you’re welcome to as well.” 

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Steve put the scissors on the porch and let Max lead him by the hand around the hedge and into her yard. 

“You got kids?” Deb asked over Max’s head, walking next to Steve. 

He bit his lip, smiling. “Nah, just. . . Married. Just Tara.” He wasn’t even sure if he could have kids, let alone if he wanted any. 

“Maybe someday, I get you.” Deb raised an eyebrow knowingly as she opened the front door. “Max, honey, go wash your hands, okay?” 

The girl’s hand slipped from Steve’s as she dashed away to the other end of the house, her little feet thumping on the carpet. 

Deb sighed and grinned wanly. “I’d apologize for the mess but I’m still learning too.” 

“No, no it’s fine.” He shook his head, looking around the room he found himself in. 

It was a different from his house ( _his house_?); the living room was in the front instead of to one side and the kitchen was in the back. There was also just a lot more stuff. Books and movies on every shelf, Max’s toys on the floor, two coffee cups on the side table, picture frames on top of the book cases and mantel. . . And it was just about papered with Avengers merchandise. A little shock went through his stomach when his eyes landed on the Captain America themed fleece blanket crumpled on the couch. 

“Someone likes the Avengers,” he said, trying to keep a casual tone, following Deb into the kitchen. 

Deb laughed. “Yeah, she’s obsessed. Better than the alternative though.” 

“Alternative?” Steve watched her from the doorway, wondering if he should help with something as she got plates out. There was an Avengers calendar on the fridge; the June picture featured a cartoon rendition of Clint. 

“You know, blaming them.” 

“Right.” Steve swallowed. Blaming them? A little kid like that? He was well aware a lot of people said the invasion of Manhattan was his team’s fault, but her? 

As he opened his mouth to ask Deb what she meant, Max came racing into the kitchen and threw herself up onto one of the high stools at the kitchen island, looking insistently at Steve. He sat next to her, placing his large forearm parallel to her thin one. 

“Okay, Max,” he started, turning to her. “How old are you?” 

“Seven!” She beamed, the gap in her teeth making her lisp slightly. 

“That mean’s you’re in. . . Second grade?” 

“She just finished first.” Deb set a stack of sandwiches in front of them and took one for herself, grinning at Max. “Isn’t that right?” 

Max nodded, suddenly very interested in the food and less so in Steve. 

After a pause while they all ate- chicken salad and not at all shabby- Deb set her sandwich on the plate and got Max a paper towel, who took it but mostly ignored it. 

“So what do you and the wife do?” Deb asked, rolling her eyes at Max. 

Steve swallowed and hoped he was getting the name of the company right. “I’m a teacher and Na-- _Tara_ is a junior executive at Roiker and Bates in Baltimore.” 

“Oh, that’s funny. Lauren’s a data analyst there.” She leaned over and picked up Max’spaper towel, wiping the girl’s face for her. “Where’re you teaching?” 

“I’m not,” he lied, wishing it were harder. “Haven’t found anything yet. I taught English in Miami before we moved here--”

“Miami? Like the beach?” Max interrupted, kicking the bar with her bare foot. 

“Some of it, yeah,” Steve answered. “Too crowded though.” 

“Oh.” She set the last corner of her sandwich down and looked at Deb. “Can I go back outside?” 

Deb smiled. “Yeah, but stay in the yard this time.” 

Max nodded and slipped off the stool, taking her toy gun with her. 

Steve stood too and started picking plates up, taking them to the sink. He had turned the water on before he noticed the dishwasher and then ignored it. “Great kid,” he said over his shoulder. 

“She is.” Deb leaned against the counter on his other side, holding a dishtowel and taking a damp, clean plate from him. “A handful but,” she shrugged, “We’re glad she’s still around.” 

“What do you mean?” he asked, handing her another plate. 

“It might be surprising, but I’m not that girl’s mother,” she said, putting the first dry plate aside. “My brother and his wife died when their apartment building collapsed during the battle in New York two years ago. She was found in the rubble.” 

The third plate broke in Steve’s hands, shards tinkling into the sink with the running water. “Oh! Dammit. Sorry,” he set the larger pieces on the counter and started picking the little bits up as well, trying to keep his arms from trembling. 

“God, are you okay?” She turned the water off and pulled his hands out of the sink, looking for blood, probably.  
“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Sorry about that.” An orphan. Collateral damage, as Fury would say. As Natasha would say. He could remember when his mom died; she had been collateral too, just a nurse trying to keep a TB outbreak down. But it hadn’t felt like that, not when she was coughing up blood, drowning from the inside out, with him standing by helpless. Sure, he’d been young, he remembered it so vividly. . . Christ, he could remember what her hair smelled like the morning she died. 

“You sure you’re alright? You’re pale.” Deb’s brows were furrowed and she was holding the remnants of the plate. 

“Yeah, I just. I was in New York that day too,” he said, realizing that it was the first true thing he’d said to this woman. “I’m really sorry about that. About her.” 

“Me too.” She offered him a half smile and turned toward the living room. “You wanted to look at some books?” 

“Right. Yes.” Steve shook himself, drying his hands on his pants before following her. 

 

*******

 

Later, while he was staring at the files that had (finally) downloaded, after he had left Deb’s with a stack of books, promising Max she could come over whenever, he thought about his dad, who he had barely known. Who died in the first war. A death he watched through his mother’s grief, but never felt. Maybe Max’s loss would be more like that; a few sunlit memories of a deep laugh and pipe smoke and nothing else. Five years old is pretty young, after all. 

He rubbed his eyes, scanning through the pages on the screen but not really reading them. Nat would be back soon and they’d have dinner and go to bed. Like normal people. Like parents, instead of bereaved children. Would she even tell him about them if he asked? She’d probably brush it off and tell him to stop being sentimental. He sighed and pushed the chair away from the desk, staring up at the ceiling; pony up, Rogers. This isn’t a problem you can fix. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been so long but I haven't forgotten! I'm sorry if there are discrepancies in this one; I just wanted to get it done as fast as possible. And I swear to god there is a plot. It's just not there yet.  
> Hit me up on tumblr! I'm mostly on my RP blog: philanthropicgeniusrichboy.tumblr.com  
> or my regular blog: thecursingviolinist.tumblr.com


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